We Could Be Heroes
by x. I Got You First .x
Summary: Superheroes are inescapable. The world has either evolved to contain them or been changed by the heroes themselves. [Marvel/Arrowverse ultimate crossover, the events of the mcu shifted to incorporate the events of the arrowverse into its organised structure of phases. Canon is handcrafted by yours truly. All aboard?]
1. An Interesting Year

_The absolute beginning of my MCU/DCTV universe-integration challenge. Enjoy!_

* * *

The newspaper was so large, it obscured his entire torso. If anyone peered at him from the train car's length away, they'd have a hard time laughing at the ridiculous image it posed. Steve sniffed and ignored the self-conscious thoughts society always rubbed into his brain, thanks to his stature. After a while, he learned how to tune it out. He focused on the fine print before him, a date spelling out at the top. 1943. War in Europe still raging. Steve's heart hung at the hopeless reminder that, try again he might, he probably would never be accepted until the war finished.

"What'chya readin'?" a female voice from his right chirped. Steve jumped, and can you blame him? A pint-sized male with a bad haircut and no muscles to his name; it didn't exactly scream "stud" or anything.

Steve surveyed his new neighbour warily, blue eyes scooping up and down. A uniform, so she apparently served or was serving or served but was currently on a break so she'd serve again. Blond hair reached her shoulders. Blue eyes which managed to both hide depth and sparkle warmly, if not mischievously.

"Paper," he responded with an upwards jerk of his chin, pointing at the reading between his two hands. "Where'd you serve, ma'am?"

"Oh, me?" she said, a bit taken aback. "Uhm, nowhere yet. I was just recruited. 'Shame we can't do more right now."

Steve blinked up at the woman's stature. She was expertly composed that he nearly dismissed the nervous shake he detected in her tone. Not _all_ of her words, just the 'oh' and the 'uhm'. So, she was nervous about shipping out. He could understand that, at least (but he would more if he could actually be _accepted_).

"Nothing to worry about, ma'am, I'm sure you'll serve our country well," he said with another nod, this time towards her and this time to be polite. She smiled. The train rattled on, jostling Steve. His shoulders wavered and newspaper quivered in the motion.

"Do _you_?" she suddenly perked up. Steve's eyes flicked, once again, to the impressive blond.

"Pardon? Do what?"

"Want to serve? You seem to support the right stuff." She slide from the metal bar, serving as an arm rest of sorts, to the seat beside the scrawny boy. Her arm trailed along the back of the subway seats.

"I do. Ma'am. Very much. I think it's what any young man is supposed to do," he replied. After a beat of realisation and a pair of widened eyes, he added, "and women, of course, should they want to."

The woman nearly raised her brows.

"I mean– not to say they _don't_ want to–."

Steve tried to dig himself out of the hole he tripped over himself and into, but he fell short when he noticed the woman's eyebrows weren't raised because she was appalled. Her twisting mouth, twisting to form the shape of a smirk of amusement, conveyed a different message.

Steve shifted in the silence that had befallen then. Her smile and his slack-jaw look were all there was. Then,

"What's your name?"

"Steve. Steve Rogers, ma'am."

"And, uh, what's the date, Steve?"

"Oh, uh–." Steve scrambled to look at the first page. His hands tore through each page, trying to get back to the cover despite being totally flustered and his mind not thinking straight. He flopped the paper over, at long last, and smoothed it out on his lap. "It's today's. Um, April twenty-sixth. 1943?" he added after her stare signified that she wasn't quite satisfied.

The woman nodded. Her blue eyes caught sight of the date between his lingering fingers.

"Well, Steve," she began, rising from her seat as the train slid to a stop into the next station. Her hand wrapped around the pole to help her lift herself up, but her gaze steadily remained focuses on the only current small-bodied passenger, "this might be an interesting year for you, yet."

She whisked her way outside just as the doors were beginning to slide their way shut. Steve blurted out a, "Hey! What's your name?" but his voice bounced off the creme colour and turned the heads of the other commuters in the car with him. Just as before, the little guy steeled himself against caring and lifted the newspaper to obscure his face.

That mischievous smirk of hers haunted Steve for the rest of the trip home.


	2. A Tempting Offer

_Takes place after __Captain America: The First Avenger_ _before the series __Agent Carter__._

* * *

A fine day for a fine cup of coffee and fine, doughy, buttery croissant. Oh, how Peggy Carter loved croissants. They didn't come quite near doughnuts, perhaps, but a croissant was still among her favourite pastries. But what complimented her afternoon snack the best was the brilliant sun, the sapphire-blue skies, the heat so warm and thick she felt cocooned in a blanket, and the gentle breeze wafting along city streets like only a Summer breeze can. Such a warm, pleasant day it was, she could almost forget about the injustice of the office (a fact she knew but had just earlier in the work day been displayed, lest she begin to forget).

"Agent Carter," a voice to her left sounded. While the formal title and tone weren't surprising, the unfamiliar woman who spoke was. Peggy tore her gaze from the shop across the street (the owner was having a heated argument with some civilian right outside his store) to regard the dark, slim form of a businesswoman standing behind Peggy's chosen table. The woman wore a black pantsuit and a crisp white shirt underneath. In both hands of hers, an envelope.

"And, you are?" Peggy replied, hooking the leg of her sunglasses and pulling the edge downwards simply so she could see this newcomer better.

"My name is Amaya Jiwe; I work for an independent branch of the government," she said. And to that, Peggy nodded respectfully.

"You found me at my most inconspicuous, I must say," answered the Agent, a subtle glance to her surroundings promoting her point. She wouldn't say she was recognisable sitting here at the cafe, alone and people watching. Well, perhaps the factor of being alone was a slight tip-off, as everyone sitting outside was either a part of a family of four or a couple or three friends occupying a table together.

"It's never that hard," Ms. Jiwe answered with a knowing tone. She ended on a little chuckle. _A very professional sound_, Peggy noticed.

"Well, please, have a seat." Peggy gestured to the seat opposite her while taking up her mug again. She sipped the rejuvenating liquid.

Miss Jiwe sat in the indicated chair and laid the envelope out on the table before her. There was nothing like seeing the return address to make one pull away from one's coffee mug rather prematurely and splutter a bit to contain all the coffee in her mouth. (Nothing like the British hospitality.) She followed up with, "Apologies," and laughed a little, hoping it might cover up that innocent mistake. _How official!_ _And how far above her current job's level!_ (Yes, even the SSR had its limits.)

"So," began Peggy, settling the mug down with both hands as if nothing has happened, "what's the name of this branch?"

"I'm sorry," Amaya said, and her smile possessed the same sentiment, "but that information is classified. _Unless_–" She pronounced it with so much promise, Peggy couldn't help but be drawn in further, "–you decide you would like to join us."

_Another classified government program_, Peggy mused. She's slowly racking them up in her resume.

"Did I say something amusing?" asked Miss Jiwe. She sounded genuinely concerned. Only then did Peggy realise the smirk that had traversed her face.

"No, no," she quickly covered up. "That's not it at all. While this certainly sounds promising, I do currently possess a job–."

"With the SSR."

Peggy eyed the street behind Miss Jiwe, expecting ears to be everywhere. As a spy, she learned one thing: paranoia was tool not a hindrance, and one must channel it even when things seem most unlikely. In this instance, however, it was nothing but a liability… and a necessity.

"No one will know," Miss Jiwe reassured. And she had a point; the families behind the talking women weren't listening to a word they were exchanging. It probably had to do with the fact that the four-year-old was screaming his head off still for the ice cream that fell on the concrete moments prior. "You picked a _lovely_ spot for conversation." Her eyes glinted in such a manner akin to friends sharing an inside joke.

"Thank you. Although, I didn't realise what it was _for_," Peggy said, albeit pointedly.

The woman sat back in her chair again, and Peggy was tempted to refer to her as 'Amaya' now simply because of the shift from formal to casual.

"How is work going for you so far?" she answered, speaking in such a way that told Peggy this woman was searching for a specific answer, and the one she would get would almost certainly prove her case. Call it instinct (call it whatever you wanted), but Peggy suddenly grew inclined not to give her that satisfaction.

"It's going great," she replied. _Well, that was a flat-out lie…_ "The work I do is very vital to function and organisation."

It was _less_ of a lie… A white lie, or half truth.

"They have you say that, don't they?" she teased. Peggy knit her eyebrows together at the insinuation. In this case, it wasn't completely baseless.

But, still…

"They don't have me saying anything," she objected, but what started as a defiant statement morphed into the rant that had been building in her chest since ever the war ended and she had been sidelined to desk-duty. "In fact, they don't have me doing anything at all! It's positively boring, I must say. The other day, I was put in charge of creating an organisational system while the men went off on the most exciting case yet! It's as if I'm living vicariously through them when I _could_ be _helping_. I could be a major asset, but do they want that? Of course not!"

Amaya watched Peggy carefully, and little by little, a smile stretched across her face.

"Yes, we do believe you have what it takes," she spoke knowingly. "And you are most definitely allowed in the field with us."

Peggy was skeptical of many things, but the smile Amaya gave her just then seemed to quench any worry. That smile provided more truth than anything else Peggy might have encountered before. One woman to another, each with an eerily similar mindset. Why would lies happen there?

_Paranoia is a tool_.

Amaya handed out the envelope, inching to the end of her chair in anticipation of conversation's end.

Peggy accepted the thick, rectangular paper.

"I will read your letter," she confirmed, "and I will seriously consider your offer. After all," she paused only a split-second to review the writing on the envelope one last time (to ensure she wasn't mistaken), "the return address is quite something."

"We hope you do, Agent Carter. It was a pleasure meeting you."

"The pleasure was all mine, Miss Jiwe."

The corner of Miss Jiwe's lips twitched upwards into a fleeting grin – one second's break from formality before it all came flooding back, as in the steady expression, the intuitive gaze.

"Call me Amaya."

It was then that the mysterious woman started walking down the sidewalk. After an uninterrupted minute, Peggy watched a possible colleague disappear around the corner. If the envelope hadn't been left in her grasp, Peggy would have thought her desperate imagination had cooked it all up: the perfect promotion. Her heart swelled with pride, with disbelief, with happiness and several more emotions she knew no name for.

Her fingers slid underneath the envelope flap. She flicked it up and turned the carrier upside down so the letter jutted out and dropped into her outstretched palm. It was all unceremonious, but she was much to exhilarated to care. He unfurled the three flaps, held the letter taut between her two hands (one placed at the top and one tugging down the bottom), and began to read:

_Dear Agent Margaret Elizabeth Carter,_

_Due to recordings of your time in Germany as well as several more accounts of your work both in the SSR and elsewhere, we have–_

A car horn, louder than artillery craft, snapped her out of the reading.

"Hey, Peg, fancy a ride?"

_What an idiot_, she thought (but endearingly, of course). She folded the two outside flaps into the third, middle section and shoved the letter back into the envelope. She'd read it, eventually, just not now; there was pressing business to attend to with Howard. A project of sorts. An idea that had been brewing in the back of their minds ever since a certain man had sacrificed himself at the end of a war.

"No, I don't think I quite fancy it," replied Peggy as she came over, her expected sarcastic quip, opened the car door (pastel yellow, of all colours, she thought with a mental eyeroll), and settled onto the leather seat of Howard's convertible.

"What have you got there?" he asked and inclined his head towards her lap. The envelope containing the promotion sat on her lap.

"An envelope."

He raised his brows.

"It seems people want me much more than you and your so-called inventions."

"I'll have you know," Howard said, shoulders squaring and voice growing indignant. Of course, it was all in good, mocking fun, "my inventions are the pride of America."

"Are you ever going to _not _quote the president?" challenged Peggy. "That was _years_ ago. I think you might have peaked."

"Me? Peaked?" he said. As he steered out of his horrible parallel parking job, a smirk came over his face; "Looking forward towards another all-nighter?"

Peggy was glad she wore sunglasses, as it made her look much more disinterested in whatever thing came next out of Howard's unstoppable and surprisingly large mouth. She knew how his words came across to the other women on the street, and she wasted no time correcting him.

"I'm looking forward towards, at least, a few hours of sleeping on my _own_, yes, after the copious amount of _paperwork_ we're about to do. Is that what you mean?"

"You ruin my fun, Peg," the Stark said as he, in his obnoxious car of yellow, raced straight passed a stop sign with no indication whatsoever. A millionaire could probably handle a few tickets for traffic violations. "Never change."

* * *

And, she didn't. She didn't even change jobs. In the bountiful research of hers and Stark's little side-project, the letter got swept under the rug, so to speak. In reality, her foot accidentally caught the edge when she jumped up to show Howard something very, very promising and kicked it under his couch. That "night" (having stayed up until the crack of darn), they were too tired to remember anything as trivial as a mysterious envelope, and at nine in the morning – after awaking from a few hours of deserved rest – neither bothered to check under the couch as they were cleaning up their mess of papers in the living room. After all, according to their project filing system, they had collected everything. With a sleep deprived mind, not even a caffeine boost could make her remember the letter for the rest of the day.

That night, she lay awake pondering where she lost it. In the morning, at the SSR's secluded office, she shuffled the papers on her desk around in a last-minute act of desperation; it could have fallen out of her handbag and integrated with her other paperwork – _busywork_, she heard Amaya's voice huff in her head. She couldn't find it.

Before their project's next late night brainstorm session, which was the following weekend, Peggy checked under Howard's couch. It wasn't there. _It wasn't there!_ She crawled on her hands and knees to check the low table in front of the sofa when the genius himself stopped short at the sight and questioned Peggy's intent. His embarrassing joke, two wine glasses, and a promise to help search later drove the thought from her immediate attention.

Yet...

They became so swept up in actual, tangible _progress_ that both parties forgot all about the letter lost under the couch.

Of course, a hassle of a misunderstanding later and the resulting manhunt drove such thoughts even _further_ from Peggy's priorities.

In the struggle of trying to prove her friend's innocence, the thought of the lost letter faded away as more immediately urgent thoughts took the limelight. It was simple, really: her friend was in trouble. It wasn't until years later, after her adventures had petered out and were replaced by the office setting of a S.H.I.E.L.D. director, that he schedule and mind cleared enough to consider the lost opportunity again. Howard Stark was in the process of emptying out his current mansion in order to move to Malibu, California ("closer to Maria's family," he reasoned aloud), and Peggy resigned herself to help with the duties of moving. She was one of Howard's only friends and on excellent terms with his newly wed, Maria. Not to mention, she got along famously with their aging butler, Jarvis.

Peggy entered the living room, the last room to be emptied. She eyed the couch, the thief of opportunity, and placed both hands on one of the two armrests. Shelifted her end of the couch, a little too impatient to wait for Jarvis even though he promised they'd help together, when a pair of moving men promptly shoved her out of the way and hefted the couch out the door. Peggy held her expression when all she wished to do was sneer or snap at their backs receding ungracefully around the corner. She stared after them, praying that there would be a time in which women would _actually_ be respected, when a beige corner registered in the bottom of her vision. Taking a step forward, she crouched to pick it up. She pulled it out, saving an envelope from over halfway underneath the rug's edge. She chortled, knowing just how little Howard's head was screwed on. _Howard nearly lost–_ She straightened. And turned it over in her hands. The back read,

_To Agent Carter_

She instantly knew what it was, and a pang of regret pierced her heart. She never read it. Not in full. She had gotten some sentences in before Howard's car horn shook the thoughts from her mind. What would her life had been, she thought, had she read it all the way through, had she taken this so promising promotion to a better division?

Peggy slid the letter out of its sheath once more.

Peggy unfurled the trifold.

The bottom of the letter was signed in loopy cursive, but she managed to make it out as 'Amaya Jiwe', underneath it was printed 'second in command of the JLA'.

_The JLA?_ Peggy only had heard rumours from her time in the SSR, and she thought this organisation was either a dead branch – a failed experiment – or completely mythological. She had never thought it might be real, the lack of evidence – both scientific and documented – simply could not prove anything. _Everything about them must had been more classified than the Manhattan Project!_ she reasoned.

The whole offer threw Peggy's head through a loop. So much potential she had missed, all because the SSR and then S.H.I.E.L.D. had been more time and energy consuming! She had to sit down, but the entire mansion was bare. The couch had been the last seat in the room before it had been whisked away by the two, rude men. Peggy resigned herself to the floor.

Jarvis found her five minutes later. He found her reduced to nothing but a stunned pair of eyes reading and rereading the offer laid out in typewriter ink before her. Although no words were exchanged, he settled down beside his old friend and basked in the silence, adding only comfort and support to the atmosphere. Despite having missed the window entirely, Peggy continued to stare in wide-eyed fascination. It had been her dream to do something of that caliber; the Justice League branch would have been _perfect_ for her capabilities and desires.

_Had_ been.

That was exactly it.

It _had_ been her dream.

Long ago, Margaret Elizabeth Carter had learned the importance of letting go. Of seeing the good that came out loss. By missing this grand opportunity, she founded something that would last a century with the only person who truly understood her, who challenged her, and who saw what the world needed same as she. Amazing opportunities? Well, they were amazing, awe-inducing, and left a sour taste in the mouth when such untappened potential was allowed to skip by. Yes, they made even the toughest weep. Yes, no one was immune to the anger which would follow. But in the end, Peggy had defined her life without it, and if she were given a chance to, would she redo it all?

Peggy had a family now, not with the Super Soldier that fell into the ice in 1945, but with the sweet man who had once been her boss, who got engaged to a nurse, who fell apart upon losing that nurse, and who was helped by an ex-spy recover and claw back at life. Peggy had a massive corporation in her name, and like tentacles it was reaching out under the radar, influencing everyday society but safely out of sight.

From the untapped potential she had loved and lost, Peggy made something extraordinary from the ashes. Something like a phoenix personified.


	3. A Human on Krypton

**Chapter Three: A Human on Krypton**

_Takes place after __Captain Marvel__, after she and the Skrull ship launch themselves into the surrounding galaxy. On their journey is an unexpected pit-stop: the planet home of the Kryptonians. I don't know Kryptonian culture or government very well, so instead of researching, I made it up. Ah, the lovely perks of re-creating two whole universes and stitching them into one. The creative power! Muahaha!_

* * *

One might think flying ahead of a spaceship to lead it to a safe haven was easy work, but they'd be wrong. Even with her power, it took tremendous effort to stay "afloat" just a couple hundred light years outside the Solar System.

Many people might think there is no gravity in space, that that is the reason people "float" in space, but Carol felt too much pull from the planets she passed and the stars they orbited and the occasional debris of foreign solar systems to think that was the case. There is a _lot_ of gravity in space, and it was all a human like her could do to not succumb to orbit and to keep the ship she was leading away from the orbit as well.

Not to mention, she was hungry.

Positively ravenous.

_Space is big as heck_, Carol mused, but her mild profanities did nothing to help; she wouldn't be counting the one-second burst of speed the thought gave her since it quickly evaporated and left her with a stomach trying to eat itself. She was just as dead tired, same as two seconds back.

She continuously slowed. Lower and lower, her speed dropped until it was _crawling_ by. The Skrulls in the ship behind her hailed her comms, but Carol – defiant as ever – told them not to worry. She told them she would be alright, that _they_ would be alright, that all she needed a moment of floating in place to rest. She stopped mid-air... if you can call it that when there wasn't any air in space. Suffice it to say, she stopped moving. Her hair floated forwards, still retaining some inertia from her traveling, but it could not go far from her head, thus creating a cloud of blond strands dancing to a standstill.

Carol couldn't breathe in space, but she didn't need to. Somehow. She sustained herself well enough – no doubt with credit due to her powers – in this 'no-atmosphere' that breathing did not matter. It had been something to get used to at first, and it still required excess concentration despite having been traveling through the nothingness.

Carol felt herself already fading fast. Her eyelids threatened to close. They did close. _Just for a second_, she thinks, _one second and I'll be okay. I just need a second's rest, that's all_. Her head rolled forward. Her ears didn't catch the hailing from the Skrull ship behind her. Her eyes didn't reopen.

* * *

When she awoke, red.

A blank surface above her: red. When she blinked away the fuzz of sleep from her eyes, she realised it was a ceiling, a ceiling awash with _red_. Below her must then be a mattress; she felt the sheets tangle with her feet and her back press upon soft springs beneath her.

Carol swung her legs over the edge, launched her torso forward, and landed on her feet. She swirled her head this way and that. With the motion, her hair created a thin film of flyaways through which she could not see. Fists raised, she anticipated some attack, some aliens or other nasties trying to probe her brain.

But what greeted her was a disappointment:

Red. Red greeted her.

Nothing but red.

Red-washed walls. Red-washed floors. Red-washed comforters and pillows.

Everything was red.

She turned to the window – the floor-to-ceiling window stretching from one side of the wall to the other – and saw a city twinkling with lights. Vehicles zoomed down the streets, each so small she could just barely make out their lack of wheels and compensating hovering. Mountains rose in the distance like a naturally-formed wall, keeping out danger. The sun, Carol noticed, was a vivid red. The sky was a red as well, no doubt influenced by the planet's star, but darker like a maroon.

Where _was_ she?

Was she captured?

_Again?_

Taking in a deep breath, she realised she had two options: sit and wait, or make the first move.

And.. well, Carol Danvers wasn't the waiting type of woman.

She turned towards the door and summoned a fist-full of light. The energy shot forth and blasted the door off its hinges. _It's go-time_, she thought with a smirk before racing out of there.

Her arms pumped. Her feet pounded. Her hair dragged behind her. Her movements alerted two guards at the bottom of the steps, both of whom had been enjoying a seemingly lovely sandwich lunch. They scrambled for their weapons, but Carol plowed right in between them, knocking them off their balance.

"Sorry, boys. Hate to break up the picnic," she quipped before charging down the long hall the stairs led to.

Doors, decorations, and the occasional, confused straggler passed in her periphery, but she hadn't the time to admire anything or chit-chat. Exhilaration coursed through her veins. Things were slightly less red than the bedroom she awoke in, but her eyes still couldn't be rid of an underlying hue. No matter how often she blinked. It bothered her. However, not as much as the next thought she had bothered her:

_The Skrull. Where were they? Were they okay? Were they being held captive, like she?_

She felt an unshakable loyalty to their destination and their journey. And if they weren't okay… God, she'd hate herself for the rest of her days if that turned out to be the case.

"Keep running," she muttered to herself.

She spurred on speed.

Something hit her in the chest and threw her to the ground.

She groaned, rolling to the side to pick herself back up, but a foot on her hip stopped her from moving any further in her intended direction. Falling back on her two shoulder blades, she held up her hands, head cocking to one side. She taunted, "So _that's_ how you want to play it?"

"I wouldn't struggle, if I were you," said the man on the right. Dressed in all black, his navy blue jacket and black, dress-type pants, he looked like a more real and more expensive version of a character from that old sixties show Steve, her brother, used to watch re-runs of and adore. The woman to his right, Carol's left, wore a slim gown of the same blue. Her hands wrung together and hung below her waist. Her shoulders were perfectly straight. If this display didn't seem so much like sidekick-and-main-event, Carol thought, she'd be inclined to believe they were a couple just judging on outfits and fluidity alone.

"Why?" Carol challenged. "Because you have me pinned down?"

"We aren't here for violence or threats."

She raised her brow at the sidekick. "No?"

"We want to talk," said the main event. Carol had no idea which to attach her focus on, so she toggled between them a couple more times before ultimately settling on the central one. She seemed more... _bossy_, supplied Carol's brain, _boss-like, authoritative_. "About your intentions of being here."

"I can promise you, being here is _not_ my intention at all."

"We'll discuss it further in the courtroom."

_Courtroom? _She wasn't about to be sentenced, she hoped.

The woman continued to say to her sidekick, "Dear, see that she follows."

The sidekick man took his foot from her hip and leaned forward to pick Carol up by the arm. Instead of taking the help, Carol whacked his hand away with a wrinkled nose and pushed herself up without any aid. She took three big strides after the woman's retreating frame before speaking.

"Hey. Hey!" she called for the authority's attention. "I have people relying on me. A whole existence to protect. I don't have time to sit around and chat."

"If your and their lives depend on it, I think you do," came a calm reply (and not one look back). "Follow me. I won't ask a third time."

Carol swallowed thickly. As much as her gut urged her to run some more, she took into account the woman's words. Maybe, just _maybe_, fighting her way through this lot was the wrong call. _Maybe_, and it pained her to reign back her instincts this once. The right call was to go along with this meeting. _But_, if things became a little too dicey for her liking, she wouldn't hesitate to kick some ass. With that promise to herself, Carol walked after the woman, the man bringing up the rear.

* * *

The _courtroom_ could not have been any more beautiful. It looked and sounded like a cathedral. The ceiling was three stories high with windows stretching up most of the way. Through the criss-crossed pattern on the panes, black lines creating a multitude of little diamonds, red light from outside streamed in, washing the sandy-coloured stone walls and pillars in the hues of the forest fire. If the room weren't so cold and spacious and _quiet_, Carol might be inclined to believe she was surrounded by flames, tongues and tongues of flame. In the center stood a circular table, easily thirty feet in diameter, and the room curved around it. On the top, like a finishing touch, the ceiling curved from every side to the opposite, creating a dome.

"This really is something," Carol marveled under her breath, her head inclined only upwards.

The woman who brought her into the hall smiled warmly.

"It was built by our ancestors and stood here throughout everything our planet has endured," she explained. "It has served as a hall for gatherings and meetings of the court for generations."

"It's beautiful," Carol complimented, still struck by the awe. The woman nodded, kindly as before, before gesturing for the Human-Kree hybrid to step up to the one free section of the table. Carol obeyed but gave a wary glance at all the faces turned towards her. Officials filled every seat on the opposite half of the table. They stared with careful gazes back at Carol.

"We welcome you before the high court of Krypton," the face directly across from Carol spoke. "By what name do you go by?"

Carol inhaled, shuffled her footing into something a little sturdier, and answered, "My name is Carol. Carol Danvers."

"Where do you originate, Danvers?"

"Earth," she said. When she was met by more blank faces, she continued, "Perhaps you know it as C-Fifty-Three."

Someone – a male – to the left of the table frowned. "That planet number assignment." He wagged his finger Carol's direction (and, boy, did it make her toes curl to be at the receiving end of something like a finger wag). "We don't use that system here on Krypton, but I have heard of it before. It's Kree!"

Murmurs circumvented the table. Carol's jaw stiffened, but otherwise she kept completely calm. There had been no insinuations flying at her just yet, but she knew they were about to come. No matter where in the galaxy she was or what she was fighting for, fingers always pointed – one way or another – at her. _But you're a women! But you're a Kree!_ All of it made her feel the same: not good.

The same man continued, "How do you know the Kree Starforce planet designations?"

"It's a long story," the interrogatee summarised albeit vaguely. All eyes signaled in silence that they were nowhere near satisfied with her answer. Thus, she ventured further. "Short story? Born on Earth, crashed a plane, got powers, taken by the Kree, lost my memories, trained with them, went to Earth as part of the Starforce, realised Kree were bad, volunteered to lead the Skrull to a safe haven. Did I miss anything?"

All eyes went slack, all lips were still, but it wasn't the same anticipating look of before. Was there a thing as too satisfied? Because that would be how Carol would describe them, judging by their faces.

"Wait, how's you guys know? You weren't there," she realised aloud and across her face came a playful frown. "Oh, yeah, I got my memories back. Little added bonus there."

She scattered the thought far from her mind and regarded the woman directly in front. This woman was a new face to Carol, but the ex-Starforce could tell she clearly held leadership status; her posture was perfect, expression expertly composed, with fingers laced together and the palms of her hands resting on the table's surface.

"The Skrull," the leader repeated, "yes, we are familiar with the two populations you speak of, and we are well aware of the feud between them, if not the reasoning behind it."

"There is none!" flew from Carol's lips. Her fingers curled into a tight fist. Never had she spoken with as much passion. Even her vigour and strength during her time spent in the Air Force – proving herself more than capable to the asshole guys that were her peers – fell short in comparison to her passion here and now. She found no sympathy in her heart for the Kree. So much that she cared not about the shock rippling through the room, apparently deterred by her outburst. "The Kree have been attacking the Skrull when all they _needed_ was a home! A refuge! Because their home planet was destroyed, by the Kree."

"The Kree have been very adamant regarding the intention of the Skrull," the leader began. Carol opened her mouth to retort (a forceful, "but–!"), but the leader's commanding words silenced her. "They have made it clear to many, many worlds that the Skrull pose a th–."

"It's propaganda! It's a campaign to ensure that no one trusts a Skrull, all so that the Starforce can wipe them out completely."

"Yet, you somehow escaped the Starforce. Can we be sure you aren't leading them to slaughter?"

Carol's eyes smoldered. Her fist caught alight, and it was all she could do to keep the glow to her fist. She concentrated on solely her next breath. _In._ Hold. _Out_. In hopes of keeping her composure, she did not speak until all the air had clear from her lungs. Then, she breathed in once more to be able to reply.

"I'd never operate under the Starforce again."

The woman held her posture perfectly while falling into quiet. Her eyes seemed to bear straight through Carol's skull but then dipped towards her hand, proof of her powers. Instinctively, Carol knew of the next question.

"And your powers? Where do _they_ originate from?"

It was Carol's turn to hold onto silence. She remembered Nick's words after the action-packed events unfolded; she specifically remembered how he described the cube and the name given to it. She opened her mouth to answer before reconsidering her words. Perhaps she shouldn't go too much in detail, lest this alien race she barely knew might find that reason enough to launch a raid for Earth. After all, if the Kree wanted it so bad, who's to say this group didn't want it as well?

"All I remember is crashing the plane and then I was surrounded by glowing blue." Was that vague enough to keep her planet safe, yet detailed enough that it seemed realistic?

She heard muted comments on her left and right. The leader made not a single sound. Carol paid the hushes here and there no mind in favour of staring straight ahead. Forward was where the words truly mattered.

The leader gave nothing away.

"That will be all, Miss Danvers. Please, if you would excuse us as the Council discussed.

Two guards approached Carol, and she immediately understood: she was to be escorted out.

Her fate rested in the hands of Krypton's High Council.

* * *

Carol banged her head against the wall. She leaned against the bland, wooden back of the chair in a tiny room adjoined to the majestic hall. She could still picture its soaring columns and vast dome; how amazing. She was stuck, however, in an adjoining back room with no one but a teenage girl for company. _A babysitter_, she figured, _and younger than me_. Her eyebrows contorted in boredom. Her umpteenth sigh escaped her lips, much to the annoyance of her babysitter.

"It _takes_ a while," the girl explained.

"Didn't they promise it would be quick and painless?"

The girl made a throaty, pitched grunt which she covered with a forced cough. Carol saw straight through that.

"What?" she asked pointedly.

The girl raised her brows and said as innocently as she could: "What?"

Carol shrugged it off, tacking a patient "Whatever" to the motion. She waited a beat before piping up again. "How old are you?"

After a brief fumble, the girl said, "I'm sixteen years old."

"Wow. And you're already working near this High Council thing."

"My parents work here. I'm just… well, I help my parents when I can. Or they make me."

Carol nodded, knowing perfectly well how overbearing parents could be about what they want to see their children do. When the girl-babysitter looked her way again, the former-Starforce flashed a smirk in hopes of lightening the mood some.

"Parents?"

"Oh! Yeah. The woman who brought you in..." She gestured to the cathedral-like hall. "...there, that was my mom. And the man with her, my dad."

"And your name?"

"Kara. Kara Zor-El."

Carol teased (while maintaining that friendly smirk), "From what I've seen here, I would have thought you older, 'Kara, Kara Zor-El'." She enjoyed talking to youth. They possessed a good energy.

"I do get that, sometimes– often– I mean, I guess working _here_ would give off that impression."

Before Carol could reply, the door to the courtroom burst open, and there – framed perfectly in the influx of red light – stood the woman who brought her in. Kara's mother.

She had a warm smile for Kara and only six syllables for Carol.

"We have reached a verdict."

* * *

Well-rested and well-fed, Carol geared up for going. The High Council of Krypton had taken a vote and allowed her a guaranteed safe passage through their solar system and neighbouring territory. They warned Carol they could not risk going much further with her, but she dismissed their apologies with assurance that she would be capable enough to see the Skrull to safety without Kryptonian assistance. Nonetheless, she accepted their decided proposal of sending six of their finest guards to protect her cargo.

Carol Danvers stood in the launching bay. Her eyes forward, where the hanger left off and outer space began, and her ears open and comms on, listening to Talos give her his reassurance and complete confidence. She had felt so guilty upon finding them in the Kryptonian guest chambers; she felt the pang of failure tug at her gut. They were too forgiving. They understood too well. She promised she would never leave them in such a jeopardising position again. Carol let her guilt fuel her up inside (alongside the meals and rest the Kryptonians offered). While Yon-Rogg might operate worse under emotions, Carol knew that they gave her the strength to sally forth. To do better. To _be_ better.

Talos counted down through the comm channel. Carol and the pilot guards prepared themselves. Whirring to life, the guards' pods detached themselves from their tethers. In the meanwhile, Carol's whole being began to glow.

_Ready...?_

_Go!_

She shot into the sky, Skrull in tow.

The guards followed right after.


	4. A Hemophiliac's Reality

_In this chapter, I introduce the first intimate weaving of the mcu and dc characters. That's right, I don't just weave storylines together but family trees, too_

_Necessary Background: Hank Pym was born to Henry Heywood and Bettie Pym, but due to his father's uncanny disappearance a month before he was born, he was raised a Pym, by a Pym, and a Pym he shall always be. Nathaniel Heywood didn't always use his paternal grandfather's surname. Until the year 2000, he was Nathaniel Pym. Hope Van Dyne wasn't always independent from the family name, either. Until 2003, she legally went by Hope Pym._

* * *

_Summary: If only Nate had a time machine, he could have stopped himself before he gave his father a heart attack._

**A Hemophiliac's Reality**

Nate should never have taken the bike out. His legs were a tangle with its metal beams. The bike pinned him down with a weight he rarely ever gave it credit for. And his head… his brain kicked at his skull as if demanding to be let free. But the worst part was his side. His pelvis throbbed where it had smacked into the concrete. If he moved to try to see better, a sharp firework exploded, sending his nerves ablaze. He let out a shriek. He didn't need to see anything to know his fate or to know that his fingers were stained red by now. His hand already felt warm and wet under the stream pouring from the tear in his skin. He pressed his hand – the same stained hand – hard against his side in meager hopes that it would stem the flow. He should have known better than to think that would make any difference.

In fact, he should have known better regarding a multitude of things. Two things came immediately to mind:

Number One: No amount of hands or pressure would ever stop the blood from escaping a hemophiliac.

Number Two: Although his father was a moron, he probably hadn't deserved to be yelled at.

In Nate's defense, Hank really, really, _really_ ticked him off that day. He heard the conversation in his head as clearly as if it were happening all over again now.

_"I don't! Okay?" yelled Nate. "I don't _care _what you _think _I should be doing! Not anymore!"_

_"Nathaniel, please-," Hank tried to interject, his voice as calmly stern as possible._

_"You want to keep locking me up? Fine. Whatever. I don't have to listen to you."_

_"-If you just listened one moment-."_

_"I'm done. Honestly. I'm done being trapped here until I die. I'm not dying here!"_

_In the silence that followed, two pairs of Pym eyes glared back at one another: the son with the intensity of fire, the father with the sharpness of a cold dagger. Despite the depths of his fire, he felt anxious underneath the piercing eyes of Hank and made a complete one-eighty turn to the closet. He yanked it open and grabbed his coat._

_"Where- why- where are you going?" Hank spluttered, downright accusatory. Nate didn't bother supplying an answer. "Young man. I asked you a question."_

_Before he could uncontrollably shiver at his father's words, Nate steeled himself from any feeling, fear or otherwise. The only emotion which leaked through was anger. Of course, that was the hardest emotion to put a stopper to__._

_"Out," he bit back. One arm through one hole, another through the second, and Nate was ready to leave the house. He grabbed ahold of the garage door handle and shoved all his might into the door. Hank might have followed him out, but Nate paid no mind to what was happening behind him in favour of smacking the button to open the main garage door. Then, he stalked towards the bikes. In classic fatherly fashion, Hank had locked Nate's bike to the garage radiator and kept the key on his person, so there was no stealing without express permission. _Did Dad seriously not believe that I could and would steal another's bike? _Nate thought with a smug grin. He wrapped his fingers around the handlebars of his dad's blue Trek, yanked it away from the rest of the cluster, and started walking it towards the large garage opening._

_With the coming of fall, the breeze chilled every inch of Nate's exposed skin and even crept in through the sleeves and neckline of his rain jacket._

_"Nathaniel."_

_Nate continued to walk._

_"Nathaniel Parker Pym."_

_The front tire of the bike was within an inch of the threshold – almost into free air – but Nate halted in place. He hated being 'middle-named', especially since Hope never received such treatment. (_Hope also isn't an obstinate brat_, he could hear Hank's voice critique in his head.) She was the good child. The responsible child. The scientific, not-wasting-her-life, model child._

_Nate was just some history geek who, sometimes, could convince himself he was adopted._

_"God so help me, if you don't get back in here right now…"_

_Nate did not turn around._

_He bristled at the tone, thick and deadly as lava._

_"What? You'll disown me? You'll kill me? Gee, how hard could _that _be? I'll give you some help, too."_

_"Nathaniel. Don't."_

_Nate looked over his shoulder in hopes that his sarcastic expression hit Hank square in that classic Pym jawline. Oh, how smug and triumphant he felt when he inched his bike across the garage threshold. The tire jutted out only three inches and yet his father's face blossomed with red._

_"What?" he said, feigning ignorance._

_"I order you to come back inside this instant."_

_"Sorry, Dad, but I don't take orders from dictators."_

_Pushing the bike all the way across the threshold, Nate swung his leg up and over, slammed his foot onto the pedal, and swerved down the driveway. With a mild bump, he rode out into the street. Away, away. Down and away. Until Nate Pym was no longer visible from any point on the property._

And that's how he ended up in a crumpled heap on the road's shoulder, covered in dirt and soaked in blood.

Nate had to alert his father somehow. With the benefit of hindsight, he saw how stupid their argument had been. Only fathers could make their children's blood boil as much. But wasn't it the child's job to disobey, to forge their own path, to make their own mistakes, all to make up their _own_ minds? Wasn't it in the child's nature to innovate passed their parents' shortcomings? If Nate ever had kids, he swore to himself he'd be a better dad than his own.

Lifting his head off the pavement, Nate traced his fingers along the back of his jawbone, from his temple down to his chin. He caught a slippery stream on the way, and his heart skipped a beat. He broke contact from his face to regard his fingers. As he suspected: coated in warm red. _Okay, okay, it's just one place, I can manage that_, he thought, killing off the panic before it could overtake his better judgement. _Take a breath and check the rest of yourself_.

He shifted underneath the weight of his bike and nearly shrieked in pain. Out escaped an involuntary whine. _No-no-no-no-no_, his mind screamed. It deafened every other function.

Where was he? He had to figure that out. Darting his eyes at the houses across the street, he did not recognise any of them. If he thought back, he recalled nothing of the road he had taken which lead him to this spot in particular. He had been too clouded by rage to process anything but the steady pump of his pedals. Despair welled up inside him like fog rolling over the fields in early morning.

_I should have stayed home_.

Why couldn't he stomp up the stairs and slam his door like a normal teenager?

Something at the end of the road– Nate's heart fluttered. He stuck out his hand and thumb while his brain scolded him for being so damn pathetic. _You're not hitchhiking, you are in dire need of medical attention!_ He prayed to anyone he could imagine to not allow the car to pass without stopping. – _Please!_ – He shifted on the ground as the car approached.

Nate wasn't able to tell if the car was slowing at all. All his helium balloon of a brain wanted was to fall asleep on the concrete. He registered nothing of the car doors opening, nothing of the feet hitting the ground or a shout for someone to call an ambulance. He did not take note of the pink flip-flops pausing on the way or the thing being toyed with in their hands. He felt how comfortable this spot of pavement became. He felt how cold the air was (and how refreshing it felt against the beads of sweat on his forehead). He felt an urge to fall into the dark cotton balls behind his eyes. Like falling asleep on a cloud...

_Just one minute of rest._

His brain kicked him hard, and his eyes flew open for a second.

_Okay, okay! Thirty seconds, then._

No was not an answer his brain liked to take. It figured; he landed in the centre of this mess, after all...

_Half a minute. Just half… a… minute._

His brain protested, so Nate opened his eyes again.

There were thin sheets riding high until his shoulders, a window to his right, machines crowding his head, and a door to his left. Nate knew enough, he needn't another's words to clarify him on his new position, let alone words of a doctor. This was the reality of a hemophiliac.

This was a hospital.

In the corner of the room stood a lab coat with its back facing Nate. Nate watched, too disoriented to speak up about anything just yet, and if he weren't, he had no clue what he'd speak about. He knew this to be a hospital room, he knew the man to be a doctor, he recognised the transfusion sticking out of his arms, and he could fill in the gaps regarding what happened to him since passing out; there was nothing to ask about.

Nate fell back against his pillow but grossly overestimated its fluff and whacked his head against the headboard. The sound was a thump like any other, but in the stillness of the midnight atmosphere, it rang out like a whip snap. Nate winced and yelped simultaneously and shot forward again. The lab coat at the corner counter turned.

Nate did not register the turn as he muttered, "If I had to also get a concussion, least it's _here_."

The lab coat chuckled, startling the bedridden hemophiliac. Eyes flashed to the size of nickels, and a brown head of hair jerked towards the laugh. His surprise made the lab coat laugh more; it was soft and comforting, despite being aimed at Nate.

"I'm sorry to startle you," she said. The wrinkles around her eyes never faded, but her lips died into a flat line. "I suppose a welcome to San Francisco General is in order."

"Was I out long?" asked Nate, finally thinking of a question to which he _didn't_ know the answer.

With a quick glance at her watch, she replied, "Five hours, from ten minutes ago." Nate stifled his groan and leaned back, carefully this time, against his pillow. Consumed only by one thought, he blinked at the ceiling. _What is Dad thinking?_ Worried or angry or distraught, Nate's brain was abuzz. _Or…_ He ground his teeth together at his own disgusting suspicion: _He thinks I got what I deserve. He thinks 'serves him right' and climbs into bed_.

"Don't worry, kid, you're lucky to be alive."

Nate groaned.

"Hemophilia is no laughing matter, but we pulled you back."

"I don't want it."

"No one does."

"I wasn't talking about hemophilia A or whatever." Still studying the ceiling in all its white and grey glory, Nate shook his head. His hair made a rustling noise as it scraped against the cloth. "I'll live with needles and joint pain."

The doctor moved around him to check the infusion of Factor VIII. Her eyes and hands reached up to turn the bag, thus rendering her capable of assessing the set up, as she asked, "What is it, then?"

Nate made a face, but he acknowledged her presence by shifting his head a fraction to face her.

"It's my dad," he sighed.

"Parents have a lot at stake here, too," said the doctor without looking at her patient. "Every parent fears losing their child, but it is so much easier when their child has hemophilia."

"I _get_ that."

"You might understand better when you have children of her own." There was the chuckle again. And she dipped her head back down to smile at Nate. Something within him relaxed – _at least she isn't berating me about this_ – but his soul remained unsatisfied. Despite his better judgement, his emotional state still welled up in response: defiant and anti-pity as always.

"Believe me, I'm never having kids."

"There's always that," she hummed. "Now that you are awake, is there something I may get for you? Perhaps water, or a book of sorts?"

"Water's fine," Nate said. She turned towards the door when he called out again, "And, wait! Maybe a book? Do you have anything, like... historical?"

"I just might," she said with a wink. "I'll be back with both, as well as with a few questions I'd like to ask."

Nate nodded.

For the entire time the doctor was out of the room, he studied the ceiling. He tried counting how many flecks of grey there were on one white tile, but he went cross-eyed every time around fifteen or twenty. Eventually, he forfeited the game and blinked at the street lamp outside the window. After fifteen minutes of pondering whether or not he should turn out the lights and bask in the eerie light of outside, the doctor returned. In her arms, she clutched a clipboard and a thick, hard-cover book. Nate caught the letters "T h e - c o l d–", but her hand obscured the rest. In her other hand she grasped a glass of water.

"First things first," she started speaking while laying all items on the side table, "seeing as you came in without identification, I need you full name and emergency contact. It's important we let any immediate relatives or guardians know about your whereabouts to let them know that you are safe and sound."

"They don't have to _come_, do they?"

She smiled. "I'm sure your father will want to."

"I just don't want to get into another fight."

"Rest assured, he'll just be glad you're okay."

Nate mumbled something along the lines of, "you don't know my dad," but she either did not hear or did not care.

"All I need is your name, your father's name, and his contact information," she spoke, and it sounded kindly enough, yet Nate instinctively knew she meant business and wasn't to be trifled with.

"Nate," he said automatically. "Short for, um, Nathaniel? My dad… is, um, Henry Pym. 415-325-8962." He rattled off the numbers before the doctor could – hopefully – register the significance of his father's name. It seemed to be working. She scribbled down his answers letter for letter, number for number without pause, delay, or other general display of thinking. She flicked the end of the '2' at the very end of the given phone number. All signs pointed to being in the clear. Then, she squinted at the board. _She just _had_ to squint at the board._ Nate could feel the cogs whirring in her head

"Henry Pym. Henry Pym. Why do I know that name?" she uttered to herself. Nate heard a metaphorical 'click' of the gears as they locked into place. Realisation dawned all across her face, as substantial as a shadow. "You're his son!"

"Yep. Got me," deadpanned Nate.

"Impressive scientist," she mused, still staring at the clipboard. "And, if the press holds any truth, really kinda secretive."

It was then in which Nate realised she was trying to ask him covertly what his father was like. Nate's steeled himself against her inner wishes; no matter what, no matter how angry he could become at Hank, he would never give anyone – not even this doctor – the satisfaction of an "inside scoop" into his family's disposition. Anymore than he already has...

Every second of waiting which passed hung on his conscience like a block of lead. His dad was coming. _Dad was coming_. His dad was coming. _Dad was freaking coming_. Nate was freaking out. If their last conversation was anything to go by, the youngest Pym was in for a whirlwind of a reprimanding. And there wasn't a way to escape this time. Two shouting matches in the same twelve hours stretch, could he take it? In thirty seconds, he would find out.

The volume was the first thing he registered, shriller than anything Nate has heard from Hank before. The tone he registered next; harsh as if the doctors were hindering his ambition. The final thing he registered were the words his father spoke, the most shocking of all:

_"It's _MY_ son in there!_

_"What jurisdiction do you have over the nurse who just told me I _CAN_?!_

_"You let me in or god so help me!"_

The classic Pym rage mixed with a Heywood's solidarity: a perfectly destructive combination. The said doctor must have stammered something in response, too quiet to detect but calming enough to quell Hank's boiling gut, since the dad in question was loosely followed by his eldest child and a quivering, young nurse as he burst through the doors. If it wasn't for Hope's sympathetic smile, Nate would have surely hung his head at Hank's red face.

"Hi, Dad," he tried as casually as possible. Over the man's shoulder, Hope's smile dropped, her eyes widened, and she shook her head twice.

"Eyes up here, boy," Hank growled.

_He's definitely mad, now,_ the bedridden thought with a sarcastic eye roll. But for all his teenager defiance, he eye rolled his gaze up to the beat red cheeks of his father

"Do you think this is funny? _Risking _your _life_?"

As much as part of him yearned to fight back, he was exhausted. The doctor's words rattled in his head like a broken record, the same phrase over and over again. _Parents have a lot at stake here, too_. He wouldn't deny it. Sometimes, the confinement became too much. Sometimes, he figured screaming at his father was the only way to make him understand there was a life for Nate to live and he was being kept from it.

"I wouldn't call biking – something everybody does, by the way – risking my life."

"Everybody else _doesn't_ _have_ want you _have_! How many times does it have to be said? You're not like everybody else."

Nate bit his lip and regarded his blanket-covered toes at the other end of the bed. He wiggled them slightly, searching for a comfortable spot since the one he had been sitting in for the past hour suddenly became uncomfortable again.

"The sooner you accept your limitations –."

Nate frowned. "Hold up."

"Isn't all that you do just, like, finding your way _around_ limitations?"

The rage, which had seemed to ebb away at Nate's submission, returned to harden his blue-grey gaze. "Listen. This isn't _science_. This is you _life_ we are talking about!"

Nate wanted to duck his head again. He wanted to forfeit his turn to appease his father's heated glare. Maybe things will smooth over and they could all be that happy family watching movies from the couch again. Since his mother's death, however, the atmosphere in the Pym household has always been tense, even at its most rested.

Yet...

There was a monster inside Nate. It snarled against its cage. Its muscles bulged; it wanted to run or scream or both and so much more. Nate was curious what would happen if he let the beast out a second. He had never tasted a moment in which he felt completely unperturbed by consequences.

"Maybe I'd listen to you if you weren't such a hypocrite."

It seemed impossible that Hank's eyes could become any more fiery and his face could turn any deeper red.

"Alright," he said, obviously biting back another tsunami. "Alright, kid. I get it." From his tone, he clearly did not. How much was Nate willing to bet his father understood his sentiments falsely? "I'm going to get your doctor, now. Hope, with me."

_Millions_, Nate answered his own question. _I'd bet millions_.

He turned to leave and made it for the door. Hope, who Nate had neglected to notice since she shook her head at him, had her arms crossed and her lips sealed in a tight line. She turned on her heel to follow her father out the door but paused to address Nate a last time.

"For the record, Dad isn't the only person who actually cares about you."

With a bite in her voice, she spun on her heel and exited as well. Nate surveyed his surroundings and noticed while everything remained the same – same cluster of machines, same bedsheets and ceiling lights, same book on the side table – but he no longer liked the lack of familiarity. All will, hope, and reason left when his sister slammed the door shut.

* * *

_In the year 2000, Nathaniel Pym changed his surname to Heywood after years of idolising his late paternal grandfather._

_Three years after her brother changed his name, __Hope realised how exhausting it was to constantly live in her father's blind spot __be fed blatant lies regarding Mom. She switched her father's last name with her mother's._


End file.
